


Peacock

by deletable_bird



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alien Biology, Alien Sex, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dicks, Dorks in Love, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Friendship, M/M, Minor Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam, Peacocks, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Song Lyrics, Songfic, because aliens, blahhhhr, confused quadrants, except the trolls are 9, kind of?, or maybe, something?, such dork, they're all like 18 tho, very love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3970084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deletable_bird/pseuds/deletable_bird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>“Come on baby, let me see what you hiding underneath,” he nearly whispers, tilting his head as he moves closer, his hands on the verge of sneaking up under your shirt. You’re frozen, your eyes fixed on his lips, until finally—just in time—you come to your senses and wrestle your hands up to shove him away. He stumbles back a few steps, and gives a snarl almost worthy of a troll. “The fuck was that for, Vantas?”</em>
</p><p>In which one Strider tries to seduce a singular Vantas and events get rather messy but turn out all right in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by Artfulimpersonator's davekat meteorstuck video, but it kind of just escalated from there. So. Thank you to KE & KW, I guess!

“Strider!”

You slam the door open. Strider looks up from his husktop— _desktop_ you remind yourself _you’re on Earth right now_ —and grins. “What?”

“What in everloving hell is that sound?” you snarl. The bouncy beat is boring into your skull, and you’re trying with all your might to ignore the words. It’s too late, though, and you try not to lunge at Strider’s throat as his grin turns into an insolent smirk. “You don’t like Katy Perry?”

“Not when she’s singing about—what kind of name is Katy Perry?”

“The name of a goddess,” Strider says without missing a beat. “You were saying?”

“Is she singing—is this—holy grubmother of God, Strider, why are you listening to songs about bulges?”

“Dicks, Karkles, not bulges. Katy’s a nice, normal human, singing about nice, normal human things.”

“Turn it off,” you order, standing up straight. You’re proud of your height, though you disguise it most of the time with your Strider-rivaling slouch, but when Dave pushes himself to his feet you feel a flare of anger. He’s still—goddamn still—got you beat by two inches. Two fucking inches that you actually rise onto your toes to try to meet as Strider moves closer.

“What, Karkitty, don’t like it?”

“Who in putrescent fuck likes listening to songs about bul—dicks?”

“I do,” Strider says, putting a hand on his hip and turning a knee out in a ridiculous pose as he sings along to the words. “ _Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock_?”

His voice is out of tune and fucking annoying, but you swallow hard when he resumes his usual position, and looks straight at you through his stupid shades. “So, Karkles . . .” His voice is something close to a purr now, though it sounds weirdly predatory. “Are you brave enough?”

You splutter. “Ex-excuse me, douchebag? You—fuck, what—you want to see my bulge?”

“ _Don’t be a chicken, boy, stop acting like a bi-atch_ ,” Strider says, his voice making heat rise into your face. You take a step back, and he takes a deliberate step forward.

“Fuck, Strider—if you’re really this desperate go find Pyrope,” you say, though it’s not as convincing as you’d like it to be due to the tremor in your voice. You try not to think it, but you know very well it’s because of Strider’s closeness.

“ _What you waiting for, it’s time for you to show it off_ ,” Strider smirks, reaching out to grab your waist. Before you can do a thing, he’s pulled you flush against him.

“Strider—!”

“ _Come on baby, let me see what you hiding underneath_ ,” he nearly whispers, tilting his head as he moves closer, his hands on the verge of sneaking up under your shirt. You’re frozen, your eyes fixed on his lips, until finally—just in time—you come to your senses and wrestle your hands up to shove him away. He stumbles back a few steps, and gives a snarl almost worthy of a troll. “The fuck was that for, Vantas?”

“Well, obviously you can’t take a single fucking hint that I don’t want to be or will stand for being mindlessly seduced so I thought I’d give you a little nudge in the right direction—in other words, straight the fuck away from me,” you say, unable to disguise the smugness at coming up with such a spiky spur-of-the-moment insult.

“God, Vantas, you think I can’t take a hint? It’s you who’s clueless,” Strider says, half-exasperated and half-angry, and then suddenly his hands are on your chest and you’re flat on his bed, your head falling somewhere between his pillows.

“Strider what the fuck—”

Then he’s kissing you, and holy fuck brain no _don’t do that_ no don’t shut down _get back up_ no no oh dear _lord_ —

The stupid, stupid song is still playing in the background—you wonder vaguely behind the heat of Strider’s lips moving against yours if he put it on repeat. You lie there tense and trembling as Strider pushes up your shirt, nipping your lips apart and splaying hot fingers against your stomach.

He pulls a breath away and growls—a puny human growl, but it sends a jolt down your spine anyway—and says, his voice gravelly, “Fuck, Vantas, respond,” before he dives back down to shove his tongue in your mouth.

His words somehow shock you back to life and with a growl you hook a leg around Strider’s calf and flip over so you’re on top. You push his thighs apart and press your entire body against his to kiss him, and you can very clearly feel something blunt, hot, and very hard pressing into your stomach.

He lets out a tiny sort of moan-whimper at your roughness before his lips harden with resolve beneath yours and he snakes his hands back up underneath your shirt, scratching long and hard down your back. You arch back into the pain, breaking your mouth away from his to pant, and he grins, an infuriating grin that begs for nothing more than to be wiped off of his face.

You dive back down and rasp your tongue against his neck, curling your fingers around the hem of his shirt collar and yanking it down to bare his chest. He lets out a shaky breath that he bites back immediately, as if not to show any signs of weakness, and you grin against his collarbone. Oh, it’s on.

This contest almost immediately becomes much harder, because holy fuck Strider’s hands are sliding beneath your waistband. You pull away, straddling his hips, and search his face. He smirks. “Scared, Karkles baby?”

_(Don’t be a shy kind of guy, I bet it’s beautiful)_

You snarl and undo your fly yourself, shoving your pants down to mid-thigh to free your bulge without allowing yourself to think about your stupid, stupid blood and what Strider will think and if he’ll just drop it here and now and this will never be finished—

You’re holding your breath, watching Strider’s face with more than a little trepidation, and once again, he manages to prove you completely, utterly, humiliatingly wrong—if only to yourself. 

You can practically feel his eyes fixed on it behind his shades, and he licks his lower lip with a look of entirely unanticipated hunger on his face. His hands find your hips, fingers gripping hard enough to bruise, and he shoves you back with so much force that you’re mildly unable to breathe as his mouth closes over the blunt, over-sensitive head of your bulge.

You make a thoroughly embarrassing, entirely too-loud noise, and a shudder runs through your entire body. You can feel your bulge searching Strider’s wet, oh god so hot mouth with uncontrollable ferocity. A choked sound escapes Strider’s lips around your writhing bulge, and you knot your fingers in his hair and yank him up. His teeth scrape the taut flesh as he pulls off, and you shiver again before you sit back up and growl at him.

“It’ll choke you, you fucking idiot,” you cough out, your voice hoarse and raspy, and seal your lips over Strider’s dripping mouth. He tastes half gross and half deliciously forbidden, and your tongue and lips are aching when you finally pull away.

“Fuck, Vantas, that is really, weirdly hot,” he whispers. You almost reach up to pull off his shades, but stop your fingers before you can get all the way there and reach down to yank off his shirt anyway. You’ve never been one to show skin, you still aren’t—but you want to mark Strider so thoroughly so even if he ignores you completely after this, he won’t be able to forget you for a long time.

He raises his arms obligingly to shed his shirt, but the compliance ends there. He shoves you back again, straddling your hips and undoing his own fly. You yank him down as soon as his pants are around his knees and score your nails—longer and sharper than his—across his back in one long, vicious motion. He chokes out a sort of groan and retaliates by yanking your pants farther down and snaking a hand between your legs to press at your nook, already slick, as he scoots down your body again.

“F-fuck,” you pant, tossing your head back against the foot of the bed. “Goddammit, Strider, just—”

You can feel hot breath on your bulge, and you’re ready to cuss a blue streak at Strider if he tries to strangle himself on it one more time, but there’s no need because _oooooohh holy shit what is thaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAA_ —

The press of Strider’s alien bulge against your own, enveloped in the rough heat of one of his hands, is officially one of the best things that’s ever happened to you. He grins at you, his face unbearably smug despite his being just as aroused and frantic as you are, and you snarl and reach up without stopping yourself. Your fingers hook around the rim of his shades and you yank them off, panting, without once thinking what will happen next.

Eyes as red as your candy-red blood pin you to the mattress. The shades fall out of your hands and land with a clatter on the floor, and you can feel your mouth open and close soundlessly. You are absolutely, slightly frighteningly frozen in place by _those—fucking—eyes_.

 _How_ did no one ever know?

He rolls off you, stands up straight and barebacked and angry. You’re no stranger to anger, and you don’t show fear, but Dave’s complete and utterly palpable mix of both is still making it hard to breathe—think—move—anything.

Still without turning around, he bends, picks up the shades, and slips them back onto his face. Yanks his pants back up to his hips. You can see the tension strung along the lines of the muscles in his back and arms. He takes one slow step, then another, then breaks into a fast stride and leaves the room, still shirtless, his fly still undone.

The song is still playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not my first fic written but it's my first fic publicly published (are those words like synonyms or some shit? i never noticed how similar they were) so all constructive criticism is appreciated >;]


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how do i alien. gawd
> 
> excuse all troll lingo inconsistencies

You never thought you’d be nervous around Dave Strider.

But then again, you never thought you’d nearly fuck him either.

Or be the one to finally take off his shades.

Or spend three days dancing around him on tiptoes.

But by motherfucking God, this is getting old and you do not like it when things get old.

You know exactly where he is, you can see him from where you’re standing nearly in the room, but it’s proving impossibly hard to step any closer. He’s sprawled on the couch, legs spread far apart and arms resting casually along the back of the couch. Some inane, human reality show is buzzing on the television, and Jade is curled up at one end of the couch. There’s the faint, oddly soothing humming-clicking noise of a sewing machine coming from the slightly open door of Kanaya’s bedroom, and as you pause in the doorway between the hall and the living room, you can hear Rose’s laugh over the hum-clicking. The sewing machine noise pauses, and you try very hard not to think about what they’re doing in there as you finally walk up to the couch.

“Strider,” you say, bracing yourself against the back of the couch. He looks up at you—at least, he turns his face toward you. The shades seem to hide his eyes even more than they did before you knew what was behind them.

“Yeah, Vantas? What is it?” Strider says, snapping you out of a sort of stupor. You can feel heat rising in your face, but you shove through anyway. “Come on. I want a word.”

He gives you a skeptical look but stands up anyway, tossing the remote lightly at Jade. She makes an amused, vaguely indignant noise, but doesn’t look away from the TV. You swear her addiction to those mind-meltingly horrible shows is going to be the end of her.

Strider follows you into the hall, and stops when you stop. You don’t turn to face him immediately, but take a deep breath. You fucking hate feeling so nervous around someone you should be taunting relentlessly, but you bite your tongue hard to clear your mind and turn around.

You don’t give yourself any time to think this over anymore, just take a step toward him, stretch up onto your tiptoes, and hug him hard.

“Dude, what—”

He’s frozen in your arms, but you don’t let go, your teeth digging into your lower lip. You hate this feeling, hate it hate it hate it, but you’ve spent three entire days thinking this over and this is the only fucking thing you can think of.

It’s too late to back out now anyway.

Your face is shoved sort of uncomfortably into his shoulder, but you don’t let him go until his hands finally come to rest lightly on your upper arms. “Karkat,” he says quietly. “What?”

“Don’t ask,” you say without pulling away, and then, even more quietly and far, far more vulnerably than you ever intended, “I’m sorry.”

“Dude,” Dave says, but his arm crosses your shoulders and squeezes you briefly against him before he pushes you away.

“Still friends?” you ask, crossing your arms tightly.

“Yeah,” he says, with some semblance of a smile. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

There are any number of fucking reasons why, and you’re scared—though you’d never admit it—that neither of you will ever be able to ignore them.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly a week before anything else happens between you and Dave. You taunt each other, you put on a normal face, but whenever you’re alone together the urge to run overcomes you and you always end up in your respiteblock trying not to think about anything. Especially Dave’s fingers around your bulge. Or his mouth. Or the taste of you on him or—

 _Fuck_.

Finally you do something. It’s dark out, and you’re padding through the living room, barefoot and bare-chested because Earth-summer fucking sucks, when you notice—way too late—that the harsh, fluorescent kitchen light is on and Dave is leaning against the counter beside the—the _fridge_ —drinking from a dark glass bottle identical to the two already empty beside him that smells like—fuck. Oh God, Dave.

You step deliberately into the kitchen. Dave splutters as he notices you and drops the beer. He lets loose a string of cuss words and drops to his knees, trying to swipe the shards out of sight with his bare hands.

Hissing, you cross the kitchen in two strides, deftly avoiding the broken glass, and yank him to his feet. “Strider. Fuck.” You push him into the folding chair that’s been permanently parked in front of the broken dishwasher and turn his hands palm up. He’s bleeding from three places, and you examine them minutely for any glass lodged in his palms before you grab the towel hung over the oven handle, wrap his hands tightly, and lift them over his head to lessen the bleeding without saying a word.

It’s only then that the suggestiveness of your position strikes you. You’re half naked, pinning Dave’s hands above his head, and he’s drunk and bleeding and staring at you with his mouth open slightly.

Your eyes drop involuntarily to his lips, and he presses them together, swallowing hard, then takes a deep breath.

“Take them off.”

“I—what?”

“You heard me.” His voice is wavery, but determined. “Do it, Karkat. Take them off.”

When you don’t move, he scoffs. “I know you want to. You’re so fucking obvious I’m surprised you’ve ever managed to keep a secret.”

You snarl and shift your grip on his hands, bending his arms back and pinning his wrists against the counter with one of your hands while you reach down with the other and grip his shades.

You pause for the tiniest moment, searching his face, then pull them off and discard them on the counter, far away from his pinned hands. He blinks slowly, looking down, then lifts his gaze to meet yours.

Even clouded and hazy from the human alcohol, his eyes still pin you in place. You have to remind yourself to breathe after about ten seconds. His lips are parted again, and you know you’re staring but can’t stop yourself.

“W-we—” you stutter, then swallow hard and lick your lips, silently cursing yourself. You sound like that smug fucker Ampora. “We might have more in common than you—um—realize . . . oh goddammit,” and before you can think at all you kiss him as hard as you can.

He tastes like human beer and he’s clumsy from intoxication, but he makes the most delicious sound you’ve ever heard and you can’t help but respond in kind. Your hands fall away from his wrists to grip his shoulders, but he doesn’t bring his still-bandaged hands down, only opens his mouth and presses his tongue forward. You let out a tiny, embarrassing sort of whimper, and he lets out a snicker. 

You slide forward, moving your hands to grip his face instead of his shoulders, and settle yourself on his lap. Strider lets out a hah of surprise and yes, _yes_ , arousal. You grind your ass down onto his human dick-bulge-what-the-fuck-ever, nipping at his lower lip and grinning at the choked moan that vibrates against your mouth. The contest to stay controlled is much less evenly balanced with him intoxicated, but you can’t help the small victory as you move down and suck at his neck, teasing flesh with teeth and tongue.

He’s breathing raggedly in your ear, his chilly hands— _when did he unwrap his hands, is he bleeding on you, why do you not care about this possibility at all_ —splayed on your back. You draw away from his neck after a healthy amount of time, thoroughly relishing having him in your power, and press another hot, open-mouthed kiss to his lips. The slick slide of your tongues sends heat through your abdomen and you can feel your bulge twitch in interest, already slick with genetic material.

Strider’s cold hands slide under your waistband, and you throw your head back, gripping his shoulders, as he pulls your pants down and wraps his fingers around your bulge. Panting, you buck into his grip, and he grins, his eyes flashing, though his breathing’s just as irregular as yours due to the continued pressure of your ass on his dick.

“Kar . . . Karkat. Fuck. Move,” he pants after a few more seconds, and you lift yourself up to your knees so he can pull his shirt off over his head and shove his own pants down. You’re shivering with anticipation, and the flash of heat that engulfs you when Dave guides your dicks—bulges—fuck it, wraps his fingers around both of you, is even more delicious than last time.

You’re both frantic and panting and moaning and sweaty, hips jerking and mouths open and sloppy kissing, and by fuck it’s the best thing that’s happened to you for a long time. You can feel yourself getting close after an amount of time that would be embarrassing in some other circumstance, but Dave is just as wrecked as you and honestly? You don’t give a single flying fuck.

“Hah . . . oh, fuck . . .” You let out a strangled, desperate noise that sounds a bit like a dying earth-cow and finish up with a panting moan of “Dave!” as your bulge jerks, writhing in Dave’s grip, and you spill, candy-red, abso-fucking-lutely everywhere. Dave chokes out something that sounds vaguely like your name, stroking himself with jerky, erratic motions, and, still riding out your high, you reach down impulsively and give his balls a tug. You’re hesitant, not sure if they’re insanely sensitive or have no sexual function whatsoever, but whatever they are, Dave certainly seems to enjoy having them touched, because as soon as your fingers close around tense flesh he chokes out a groan that is _definitely_ your name and his head falls forward, his forehead resting against your chest as he spills over both of your hands, a puny amount of boringly white liquid, but it seems to be just as enjoyable to him as your orgasm was to you.

He doesn’t move his head off your shoulder. It’s almost an affectionate gesture, but it makes you tense until he sighs, wraps his arms around your torso, and yanks your naked bodies together in an almost painfully tight but oddly comforting hug. “Karkat.” His voice is muffled, quiet. Not like regular Dave at all. “Relax.”

“Strider, you’re a fucking idiot.”

“Excuse me?” His voice is clearer, because he’s looking up at you, and his eyes are flashing at you again, and holy fuck your brain is full of fog. You take too long to answer, and when you do you’re a fumbling mess of tongue and teeth and stuttering.

“I—um—y-you—just came all over you—and now I’m sitting in a pile of my own genetic material in a stupid stupid kitchen on top of a drunk Strider and I’m stupidly fucking cold and you’re telling me to _relax_ and I kind of hate you for it but I also might be just a little bit in love with you.”

Pause.

“ _Fuck_.”

You push off of his shoulders, stand up and yank your soaked pants back up. You’re nearly out of the kitchen when a hand grips your shoulder, and Dave grabs you and yanks you around to face him, not pulling you against him but not letting you move away either.

He’s covered in your genetic material and his own human come, his hands are still bleeding sluggishly although the red is starting to dry into dark brown, and his shades are still discarded on the counter. His eyes pin you in place, and you silently let loose a delightful pyrotechnics show of every single colorful curse word you can dredge up. You really, _really_ hate what his eyes do to you.

“Karkat,” he says, and he sounds so vulnerable and soft and almost childlike and _fuck_ , affectionate, not like the Dave Strider you thought you knew at all, that you bite your lip and stare down at the floor.

His hands grip your face. “Karkat, oh God.”

“Why do you bother?” you say bitterly. “Why do you even bother? It’s not like I could ever be good for you. It’s not like something healthy and normal could ever happen between us. Why don’t you just let me go.”

You’re not expecting an answer.

But you get one.

Dave kisses you so fucking gently, soft and sweet and with no teeth and a whole lot of tongue and a shitload of tiny sighs and warm hands against your face, so fucking _gently_ , and every tiny movement speaks volumes of response, of _use your brain you fucking idiot I love you too_.

Jesus fucking Christ.

It’s the best answer—to a question that didn’t even want one—you could ever have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are extremely appreciated *hint hint wink wink nudge nudge* Thank y'all for reading!!! Lemme know if you liked it, hated it, thought it was perfect, thought it had room for improvement, and also REQUESTS. I THRIVE on prompts and requests. And also critiques. And also chocolate chip cream cheese toast, but that's beside the point.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my first fic written but it's my first fic publicly published (are those words like synonyms or some shit? i never noticed how similar they were) so all constructive criticism is appreciated >;]


End file.
